Whence flew the litter whereon he was laid? Of what heroic stuff was warlock Henry made? And questions of that sort Perplexed the bulging cosmos, O in short Was sandalwood in good supply when

Full moon. Our Narragansett gales subside And the land is celebrating men of war More or less, less or more. In valleys, thin on headlands, narrow & wide Our targets rest. In us we

In the night-reaches dreamed he of better graces, Of liberations, and beloved faces, Such as now ere dawn he sings. It would not be easy, accustomed to these things, To give up the old

Henry, edged, decidedly, made up stories Lighting the past of Henry, of his glorious Present, and his hoaries, All the bight heals he tamped— —Euphoria, Mr Bones, euphoria. Fate clobber all. €”Hand me back

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, We ourselves flash and yearn, And moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatedly) ‘Ever

Henry in trouble whirped out lonely whines. When ich when was ever not in trouble? But did he whip out whines Afore? And when check in wif ales & lifelines Anyone earlier O? —Some,

Again, his friend’s death made the man sit still And freeze inside—his daughter won first price— His wife scowled over at him— It seemed to be Hallowe’en. His friend’s death had been adjudged suicide,

Turning it over, considering, like a madman Henry put forth a book. No harm resulted from this. Neither the menstruating stars (nor man) was moved At once. Bare dogs drew closer for a second